The Seduction of Sara

by Karen Hawkins

  The rest of the Hall represented a succession of owners who built with little consideration to the style of the existing house. Strangely, the resulting architectural hodgepodge was both pleasing and intriguing.

  “My lord?” Mr. Pratt’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve prepared a list of materials needed for the repair of the east wing.”

  Nick nodded, not bothering to examine the paper. His solicitor was more than thorough. “Give it to Ledbetter. Make a note that we will need more men, too. I want as much of the repairs completed as possible before spring.”

  “Yes, my lord. I will have him scour the countryside for skilled laborers.”

  “We’ll need a steady supply of lumber, as well. Perhaps we should ship some in from France.”

  “I’ll make inquiries.” The solicitor adjusted his spectacles, his gray eyes almost obscured by the thick lenses. “Mylord, how…how are you today?”

  Jaw tense, Nick recognized the reference to his headaches. Ah, the joys of old family retainers—yet another aspect of settled life that he had not missed. He caught Pratt’s concerned gaze and managed to say, “My headaches are less frequent here than in France.”

  “Excellent, my lord. Perhaps they will fade away altogether.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, more to end the conversation than because he agreed. He stirred restlessly and pushed aside the edge of the new window hangings, his fingers lingering on the velvet curtains. The lush, sensual feel sparked a sudden vision of Lady Carrington as she had appeared three nights before. Small and delicate, with thick black hair and creamy white skin, she would make a stunning mistress. Every diminutive inch of her was quality—exactly the type of woman to fit a setting like Hibberton Hall. Exactly the kind of woman who would fit Nick’s new station in life. All he had to do was win her to his bed.

  A brief knock heralded the entrance of the butler. Wiggs tottered into the room, a tray laden with silver and delicate china resting in his gnarled hands. “Your tea, my lord.” The butler’s voice cracked in the middle of the word “lord” making it sound like “lard.”

  “Thank you.” Nick noted how the butler kept his gaze averted. Since his arrival, the resident servants had treated him as though they expected him to sprout horns and a tail, and it was beginning to get as annoying as hell. “Wiggs.”

  The butler looked up from adjusting the china on the tray, his gaze uncertain. “Yes, my lord?”

  “How long have you served Hibberton Hall?”

  “Almost fifty years, my lord.”

  Mr. Pratt lifted his head from his list making. “All of the servants have been here for quite some time, which is amazing considering that they haven’t received a decent wage in years.”

  Wiggs nodded, pride shining in his face. “We love the Hall, sir. It is a pleasure to serve it.”

  Pratt dipped his pen into the inkwell and carefully adjusted a column. “Well, you need never again fear missing your wages.”

  “Indeed not,” Nick said, who could not understand such misplaced loyalty. A house was just a house, and Hibberton Hall, for all its potential beauty, was nothing more than that. “Wiggs, I cannot help but notice that the staff seems uneasy.”

  The butler’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in an alarming fashion. “Do they, my lord? I-I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Indeed they do. And it bothers me. So let me say this once, and you can carry it to the others. If you, or anyone else employed at Hibberton Hall, find you cannot bear to see me in your master’s place, then I shall have Pratt find you employment elsewhere.”

  The butler paled. “My lord, with all due respect, the staff was glad to see the baron sent about his business.”

  Nick frowned. “Then why the devil do all of you jump like rabbits every time I call for you?”

  Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “Ah, perhaps I can explain—”

  “Mr. Pratt,” Nick said softly, not taking his gaze from the butler, “while I appreciate your desire to assist Wiggs, he appears quite capable of answering for himself.”

  Wiggs straightened. “My lord, I apologize for any peculiarities you may have witnessed in the household staff, but you must realize that we’ve never had a gentleman in residence. In all my years as butler, Lord Parkington was here only once. I believe he stayed all of three minutes.” Visibly trembling, the butler clasped his gloved hands before him. “The staff and I are doing our best to accommodate you, and we only hope you won’t turn us out.”

  “Turn you out? I have no intention of doing any such thing.”

  The butler let out his breath in a long wheeze of relief. “Thank you, my lord! You have no idea—”

  “Provided,” Nick continued inexorably, “that you prove your worth. I cannot abide laziness.”

  “My lord, you will have no cause to dismiss anyone.”

  “I certainly hope not. Still, I must ask why is it that after almost a month in residence, only my bedchamber and the comte’s are fit for habitation?”

  “I have frequently spoken to Mrs. Kibble on that subject, but I’m afraid I was unable to convince her that the quiet countryside around Bath could hold the interest of such a, ahem, man of the world.”

  Nick noted the pause but decided not to pursue it. “So the redoubtable Mrs. Kibble believes I might leave at any minute and not return?”

  The butler looked pained. “The current odds are twenty to one that you won’t see six more weeks.”

  Nick certainly understood the appeal of a wager. “Wiggs, I wish to make a small wager myself.”

  “My lord?”

  “I wager ten guineas that the bedchambers in the east wing will not be cleaned and aired by the end of the week.”

  “But sir…that’s almost two entire floors!”

  “Then I will be keeping my ten guineas,” Nick said gently.

  After a startled moment, a reluctant smile creased the lines on the butler’s elderly face. “I will notify the staff at once, my lord. We will complete the task; see if we don’t.” Beaming, he left the room, a surprising spring to his ancient step.

  As soon as the door closed, Mr. Pratt stood, his chair sliding silently over the thick rug. “Some of this is my fault, my lord. Before you returned, I fear that I mentioned to Wiggs that you might not need the services of all the servants here. I wasn’t certain what household staff you might be bringing from France.”

  “I had no household servants in France, Mr. Pratt. In fact, I had no household.”

  “I was unaware of that fact, my lord. Since you sent me a considerable sum each year for investing, I assumed you were living well.” A hint of concern deepened the solicitor’s voice. “You…you did live well, didn’t you, my lord?”

  He shrugged. “I had the money from the sale of Bridgeton House.” And he sincerely hoped its drafty fireplaces were the bane of his damned cousin’s life. Alec deserved no less.

  Those three, long, lonely years on the continent, Nick had lived the life of a wanderer, even when well-heeled. Somehow he’d always known he would return to England, regardless of the promise he’d made Alec.

  Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, my lord, but when I heard you were returning to England, I feared the intervening years might have…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Humbled you in some way.”

  Nick raised his brows. “And now?”

  “You have not been humbled, my lord. I’m not sure why you felt it necessary to leave England, and your cousin, Viscount Hunterston, has never mentioned the events that led to your travels. But there were rumors…” The solicitor reddened, then gave an apologetic shrug.

  “I was banished from England,” Nick said shortly. “Forced into a nomad’s life due to my errors in dealing with my cousin.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Pratt murmured, gathering his ledger. “Very understandable.” He paused, then said quietly, “Lady Hunterston is an exceptional woman.”

  “She is al
so my cousin’s wife; a fact I managed to forget.” Nick smiled coldly. “Don’t look so crestfallen, Pratt. It was inevitable. Alec and I cannot be in the same room more than ten minutes without coming to blows.”

  “I daresay some of that is due to the way your grandfather used to play the two of you against each other.”

  “My grandfather believed Alec worthy. He was not so generous with me.”

  “That was his error, my lord. It has been my pleasure to serve the Montrose family for nigh on thirty years, and regardless of what has happened between you and Lord Hunterston, I’m glad you have returned.”

  “Are you? Alec inherited the fortune, not I.”

  “Lord Hunterston does not hold the title. You do.” Behind his thick spectacles, the solicitor’s eyes warmed. “I can never forget that. In fact, I didn’t even notify Lord Hunterston that you had returned. I thought it would be best if you saw him once you were more settled.”

  Nick flashed a humorless smile. “And could show him my new magnificence?”

  Pratt met Nick’s gaze steadily. “And show him how you’ve changed. You have, sir. And we both know why.”

  Because the headaches had finally come to him, just as they had come to his mother. It was only a matter of time before his true weakness was exposed, until he sank into the same blackness that had claimed her, the search for relief that had led her down more and more depraved paths.

  The bleak hole that festered in Nick’s soul ached anew. He managed a shrug and turned away. “You mistake the matter, Pratt. I am the same as always, only wealthier. And you may tell my bloody cousin that, with my compliments.”

  A long silence filled the room, then Pratt sighed and Nick could hear the solicitor gathering his papers. “I see His Lordship but little. Viscountess Hunterston keeps him well occupied.” The solicitor hesitated, then added, “Lady Hunterston has recently retired to the country.”

  “At this time of the year? Is she ill, or—?” Nick broke off, comprehension dawning. “Ah, she is having another of Hunterston’s brats. What does that make? Ten? Twenty?” Sourness rose in his belly, hot and heavy. It wasn’t disappointment, for he’d come to realize that what he’d felt for Julia had been nothing more than hope—hope that she could, somehow and some way, save him from himself. It had been a vain and foolish dream, all tangled up with his desire for what he couldn’t have.

  Mr. Pratt adjusted his glasses. “I believe it is only their second child, my lord, although they have adopted several others.”

  “How perfectly dreadful.” Nick clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the lawn. “At your meeting with Ledbetter, tell him to set a date for completion. I want the repairs to the Hall finished as quickly as possible.”

  Pratt bowed, then crossed to the door. “Yes, my lord. Is there anything else you require?”

  “No. Just…Pratt?”

  The solicitor turned around, his pale eyes curious. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Thank you for protecting my interests while I was away.”

  A pleased smile touched the solicitor’s face as he bowed again. “It is a pleasure to be of service.” The door closed quietly and Nick was left alone at the window.

  On the brown lawn, the winter wind chased a small swirl of leaves down the gentle slope to the pond. As barren and wasted as it appeared, it was his, and he took satisfaction in the notion.

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and the comte entered. He was dressed for riding, his deep blue coat making his white hair seem brighter, a jaunty lift to his step.

  “Where have you been?” Nick asked. Since the Jeffries ball three days ago, Henri had been in hot pursuit of a widow. Though Nick had not asked, he was certain the woman was blessed with both a fortune and a title, for the comte did nothing that did not progress him further into society.

  Henri crossed to the crackling fire. “I have been riding with the lovely Delphi. Ah, Nicholas, you should see her! She is—” The comte kissed his fingers to the sky and dropped into a chair, his legs stretched before him, a smile on his face.

  Nick turned to sit at the desk. “So you have been telling me for three days. I’m amazed I didn’t notice this paragon when we attended the Jeffries ball.”

  “Ah, that is because she has no brilliance of expression. No forward, playful manner. No blinding beauty. None of the things you prize in a woman.” The comte held his hands toward the flames. “She is quality. Very pretty, and quite charming. A shy butterfly who wants to fly like a bird. And I am willing to teach her all she needs to know.”

  “Henri, please. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I’ve a million things to see to this morning, none of which will get done if I must listen to your drivel on an empty stomach.”

  Henri stiffened. “A million things to do! But you cannot! I told Lady Langtry that you—”

  Nick shot a swift look at the comte. “Lady who?”

  “Langtry.”

  “Your Delphi is the Duchess of Langtry?”

  “Oui. But that should be no surprise. Every day I have told you that I—”

  Nick broke in impatiently, “Henri, have you met the duchess’s niece?”

  “Lady Carrington? But of course. She rides with us every day.”

  “Damn it, Henri!”

  Henri blinked. “What, have I done something wrong, mon ami?”

  “No, but I have an interest in Lady Carrington.”

  Comprehension lit Henri’s eyes. “Ah, the lovely Sara is your quarry. That is a pity.”

  “Why?”

  “She has only been a widow for a year and her husband was not faithful. I fear she did not accept it well.”

  So the intriguing Sara was a romantic. That was useful information, indeed. In Nick’s experience, women who yearned for the romantic often interpreted the simplest gestures as declarations, which made them all the easier to seduce.

  “Mon Dieu!” Henri said with a disgusted look. “I know that expression. Do not even think it. From what Delphi has let slip, Lord and Lady Carrington had a love match at one time, but it turned sour.”

  “She has been disappointed, then.”

  “Oui, and Delphi has hinted that Sara had fallen into some impropriety because of it.” Henri frowned. “Nicholas, she is the type of woman one falls madly in love with, not the type for a dalliance. You know I am not one to interfere, but I have a feeling you should let her be.”

  “You have a feeling?” Nick’s lip curled. “The next thing I know, you will be reading tea leaves.”

  “If I could read tea leaves, I would be a very wealthy man. Unfortunately I have only my instinct, and it tells me Lady Carrington is not the woman for you.”

  “What does it tell you about the lovely Delphi?”

  Henri gave a reluctant smile. “Lady Langtry is different.”

  “How fortunate for your conscience.” Nick stood. “Pray continue your association with the aunt. It could prove very beneficial to us both.”

  After the barest hesitation, Henri clutched at his heart. “Oh, the pain! To have to endure another half hour in the presence of such a beautiful lady. It cannot be borne.”

  “Go to hell, Henri.”

  “Voyons, but you are irritable this morning.”

  “I have been attempting to get the servants more focused on their duties. Like the Hall, they have not had proper supervision in some time, and they are incapable of doing a decent day’s work.”

  “Ah, that is because of Napoleon. You might think him safely ensconced on Elba, but he is alive and well in the sitting room at Hibberton Hall.” At Nick’s questioning gaze, Henri chuckled. “There is a damp spot on the wallpaper. Your estimable housekeeper, the devout Mrs. Kibble, decided it looked exactly like the silhouette of Napoleon from the Morning Post.”

  “Did she, indeed.”

  “Oui. Half of the staff believes her, while the other half are steadfast that the stain looks more like Wellington. It has caused such dissension that the footman and the groom came to blows
over the matter last night.”

  Nick shook his head. Of all the houses in England, he had to win one that possessed a staff worthy of a Shakespearean farce. “I gave Wiggs a powerful incentive to refocus everyone’s efforts on the east wing. Perhaps some honest work will distract them from their search for Napoleon’s likeness.”

  “Perhaps. Me, I’d start anew.”

  “I don’t have the time to retrain an entire staff.” Nick looked down at one of Pratt’s endless lists. “I fear that Lord Parkington cheated me in giving me this house. I should have shot him in the privates.”

  Henri waved an airy hand. “But with a little paint, a little hammering…the Hall will be as good as new, no? A man should leave his mark on this world. Hibberton Hall will be yours.”

  “So I hope,” Nick said. Though the cost would be high, most of the main work had already begun. Soon he would have a home as befitted his name, a home his mother would have been proud of.

  Henri watched as the shadows slowly passed from Nick’s face, the stiff façade shifting and then disappearing altogether. Most people thought the Earl of Bridgeton a hard, unsympathetic man. And most of the time, he was exactly that. Life had not allowed the earl the luxury of having a heart.

  But every once in a while, Henri caught a glimpse of something in Nick’s face—something very human. Something worth befriending. “Tell me something, mon ami. Now that you have returned to England and you have this beautiful house, what are your plans?”

  The earl’s cold blue gaze lifted from the sheet of paper and fastened on Henri. “I will ensure repairs to the Hall are well under way, and then…”

  “And then?” Henri asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “Then I will conquer a black-haired innocent with a propensity for teasing.” Nick turned to the window and stared with unseeing eyes at the front lawn with such intensity in his expression that Henri shivered.

  Mon Dieu, things were not going at all as he had planned—he’d meant for the earl to find a pleasant companion, one who would beguile and tease him from his moods. But it was obvious Bridgeton had something else in mind—a taste of the forbidden.